A ChristMiz Carol
by Insanemistosingsmore
Summary: During a storm, Les Amis are stuck in the Cafe Musain. Courfeyrac, being who he is, entertains all.
1. An Uncle and his Nephew

**Disclaimer: I definitely don't own Les Miserables. I also don't own A Christmas Carol, for which this was inspired. As such, most of the dialogue isn't mine, since I do so love the original. Some of it will be changed, but the really recognizable speeches and lines are still there, except for one: you will not find my Scrooge saying "Bah, Humbug." I don't own the lyrics to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen…wow this is a long disclaimer. Do I even own myself? It's questionable…**

It was a dark night at the Café Musain. A raging blizzard outside meant that nine young men were stuck in the back room, which they'd been in all night for a meeting. As the meeting wound to a close, several of the young men became aware that, because of the snow, they'd not be going home any time soon.

One of the young men, a vivacious dandy named Courfeyrac, realized the situation and became determined to make the best of it. Addressing Bahorel, a brawny riot-enthusiast, "Did I ever tell you about my great-uncle Didier de Courfeyrac? He saw ghosts, you know."

Bahorel shook his head, always willing to listen to Courfeyrac's anecdotes, even the wilder ones. Combeferre, a medical student who believed in progress above all else, looked on skeptically, but listened.

"It's true! The first thing you should know is that…"

*** *** *** *** *** *** …Is that old Theirry Joly was as dead as a doornail. Nine years dead to the day that Christmas Eve. Our story begins in a small bank on the Faubourg St. Antoine. Lying near the building was a crutch that belonged to a small sandy-haired cripple boy named Gavroche. Now Gavroche sat, waiting for his father to finish his work. A group of carolers were singing nearby and the lad wasn't surprised to find himself singing along.

_God rest ye merry gentlemen let nothing you dismay!_

_ Remember Christ our Savior was born this Christmas day!_

_ To save us all from Satan's power when_ _we were gone astray. _

As we look inside the building, we see first a shivering young clerk, holding his frozen fingers over the slight warmth of a candle. This man, as you may have guessed, is young Gavroche's father, Marius Pontmercy. Pontmercy risked a quick glance at his employer. Since the old man seemed to be absorbed in his work, Pontmercy cautiously got up to tend the fire.

"Pontmercy!"

"The fire's gone cold, Monsieur." At old de Courfeyrac's beckoning, the clerk warily approached. The old man slowly looked up, revealing a weathered, closed off face. One would find themselves shocked if such a face ever smiled.

"Coal is expensive, Pontmercy. We'll not be using any more today. If you are cold, dress more warmly in the future."

"Yes, Monsieur," Both men turned back to their work. Less than fifteen minutes afterwards, a young man came in, bursting with all the energy of his age, curls escaping from under his rakishly angled hat.

"Merry Christmas, Uncle Didier." It was Martin de Courfeyrac, the older man's nephew. Martin had come in so quietly that this was the first moment that old de Courfeyrac knew of his presence.

"J'en ai marre," was the old man's mumbled response. And he was sick of Christmas.

"Sick of Christmas? Surely you don't mean that, Uncle." A puzzled look had settled on the lad's face. Although he knew of his uncle's disposition, this anti-Christmas sentiment was one that he'd never truly understood. It was also one that Martin knew deep down that he didn't _want_ to understand. To him, it represented the first step to becoming a miserable old man like his uncle…alone in the world, and seeming to be content to be so.

"Oh, but I do. Merry Christmas…What right have you to be merry, what reason? You're poor enough." He retorted sharply. Every word of it was meant wholeheartedly. His nephew was simply being a fool

Martin took this all in stride with a smile. "Well, then, what right have you to be so dismal and morose? You're rich enough."

This seemed to stump the old man, for he returned to his original statement of "J'en ai marre."

"Oh, don't be cross, Uncle. I was only teasing."

"What else can I be, when the world's gone mad with 'Christmas'?" The last word was practically spit, and was dripping with venom. "What is Christmas, Nephew, but a time for buying things without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your checkbook and finding every item dead set against you. If I had my way, every idiot who went about with 'Merry Christmas' on their lips would be boiled in their own pudding, and buried with a stake of holly through their hearts."

This bought a surprised "Uncle!" from Martin. He hadn't thought his uncle that far gone.

"Nephew! You keep Christmas in your way and let me keep it in mine!"

Martin let out a sigh before giving the obvious answer. "But you don't keep it at all, Uncle."

"Well, then, let me leave it alone. Much good it may do you…or has ever done you for that matter."

The smile dropped from Martin's face. "There are many things from which I might have derived good, by which I have not profited, I dare say, Christmas among the rest. But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round - apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that - as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys. And therefore, uncle, though it has never put a single sous in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!"

Pontmercy, who had been quietly observing all this time, made himself known by applauding this speech. As well he should, it was quite a fine one.

De Courfeyrac turned on his clerk, in a high fury. "Perhaps you'd like to keep Christmas by losing your work?"

The clerk shook his head. That was, perhaps, the last thing he'd want.

"Well, then, not another sound from you." He turned back to Martin. "Well, nephew, it seems you have a talent for speaking. It's a wonder you haven't been elected to the National Assembly."

The slight smile was back. "Don't be cross, Uncle. Come and dine with us tomorrow!" The look on de Courfeyrac's face—cold, cross, and stubborn – was answer enough for Martin. "Why, then? Why refuse such genial company?"

"Why did you get married?" The old man shot back with a hint of sarcasm.

"Well…because I fell in love!" Martin answered as if it were the most obvious statement in the world. Why else would someone marry?

The old man repeated the reason sarcastically, and then attempted to close the conversation with a brusque "Good afternoon."

"Uncle, I ask nothing of you, I want nothing from you. Why can't we be friends?"

"Good afternoon!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle, with all my heart to find you set so stubbornly against happiness. Well…I've made this trip full of the Christmas spirit, and in its name, I'll end it that way. Merry Christmas Uncle!"

"Good afternoon!" With each repetition, his voice grew a bit louder, so that he was almost shouting at this point.

"And a happy New Year!" Martin called out as he made to leave.

"Good afternoon!" This time, it was indeed shouted.

Martin noticed Pontmercy on his way out, and wished him, too, a Merry Christmas. This time, the sentiment was returned.


	2. Two Gentlemen and a Spirit of Foreboding

**Special thanks to Maria Combeferre, my first Reviewer, and to WontYouLightMyCandle and Mam'zelle Combeferre, who've supported me when this was a baby plot bunny. And to all you lovely people who are simply reading (yes, I checked my traffic), don't be shy to just drop a review to say whether or not you like it. It doesn't have to be an essay on every little thing I did right or wrong…it's just hard to tell if I'm getting any reads sometimes if I don't get reviews.**

Just then, one of the young men spoke up. A medical student named Joly, who had a bit of a head cold, looked confused. "Your uncle dew by grea' grandfadur?" he sniffled.

"Of course! I'm just surprised that it's not an uncle like with me. After all, both of them were rather lonely." And stingy…and quite a few other adjectives that Courfeyrac wasn't about to go into. Courfeyrac would have gone on with that particular tangent, had Bahorel not discretely elbowed him in the ribs. "That was uncalled for!" he proclaimed.

"Get on with the story, ami, I want to hear about those ghosts!" Bahorel plainly ignored the earlier comment about his methods of getting Courfeyrac's attention. It was not the point.

"Fine. As our dashing Martin left the ba—"

"Wait…Courfeyrac, isn't your first name Martin?" Combeferre had learned long ago to treat most of what Courfeyrac said with a healthy amount of skepticism. Hyperbole seemed to be the dandy's native language.

"Yes. I'm named after my father. Rather arrogant of him, but then again, Mother's the one who really runs the family, and she absolutely dotes on me, so I suppose it's a good reflection...As I was saying, just as Father was leaving the bank…

* * *

><p>…Two elderly gentlemen entered. One was an abbé, the other, a simple man of moderate means. They held between them materials necessary for their duty. "Is this the offices of Joly and de Courfeyrac's?" Mabeuf, the abbé, asked.<p>

"It is," came the cold answer from Didier. He was none too happy about being interrupted for the second time in a row.

Neither of the gentlemen seemed to notice. The second man, Valjean, stepped forward to ask the next logical question. "Do we have the pleasure of addressing Monsieur de Courfeyrac or Monsieur Joly?"

"Monsieur Joly has been dead for nine year…to the day, actually."

Valjean continued, having the logical answer. "Well…we're sure his…um…generosity is well represented by his surviving partner, n'est-ce pas?"

One might say so, seeing that Monsieur Joly was just as stingy and closed off as Didier was on this Christmas Eve. In fact, as Didier looked back down at his work, he gave the impression of an affirmative answer.

Mabeuf took over. "Some of us have been endeavoring to raise a fund to assist les abaissés. At this festive time of the year, we find it appropriate to attempt to offer them some food, shelter, and means of warmth."

"There are debtor's prisons, are there not?"

"Plenty, Monsieur…" Valjean looked troubled.

"And the workhouses, they are still in operation?"

"Yes, although I wish upon my very soul that I could say they were not." Mabeuf began to understand exactly what kind of man they were dealing with.

"I pay plenty in my taxes to support the institutions I've mentioned. Those who are poorly off must go there." De Courfeyrac's annoyance was beginning to show.

"Many cannot go there, Monsieur. And to be quite honest with you, many would rather die!" Valjean burst out, knowing from experience just how bad these places were.

"Well…if they'd rather die, they'd better do it then. Decrease the surplus population." De Courfeyrac offered a slight grin, which was little more than a twitch of his lips.

"Surely you don't mean that, Monsieur…I mean…to condemn so many without a thought…" Mabeuf asked, horror at the thought showing plainly on his face.

"Oh, but I do. I don't make myself merry at Christmas, and I can't afford to make les paresseux merry, either.

Valjean was about to protest to that rather violently, and may have ended this story quite differently if Mabeuf hadn't put a calm restraining hand on his shoulder. "Come. It isn't ours to judge him as he judges others. The Lord above only has that right, may He have mercy on our souls." He crossed himself, then both gentlemen left, recognizing a lost cause.

"I suppose you'll want the _ whole_ day tomorrow?" de Courfeyrac sighed in annoyance, addressing his clerk without looking up. The Noel was always troublesome, and this year, it seemed to be particularly so.

"S'il vous plaît."

"It's not right, you know. You'd think it highway robbery if I were to dock you five sous for it, now wouldn't you?" The clerk nodded nervously, half in agreement, half just to keep the man talking. De Courfeyrac's loquaciousness almost definitely meant he'd not be firing Pontmercy. At least not yet...

"Yet you don't find the same applies when I pay a full day's wages for no work? J'en ai marre."

"It's only once a year, Monsieur."

"Poor excuse for picking my pocket like a common gamin every twenty-fifth of December. But I suppose you must have the whole day. Be here all the earlier the next morning." With that, the two left the bank, one with that rarely observed but always occurring joy at seeing one's offspring for the first time that day, the other with a scowl etched on his aged face.

Should one follow de Courfeyrac home any day of the year, not only would they get a stern telling off, but they would lay eyes on the most dismal, miserable, and gloomy chateaux in la belle France. The building itself had the potential to be beautiful, but buildings tend to take on the nature of their inhabitants, for an empty house is a blank canvas just waiting for the paint of a life lived within. And this house told volumes of de Courfeyrac. The door was foreboding, one that people tended to avoid. The windows were dark, and shuttered all day. The yard was in a state of disrepair that any other member of the Parisian bourgeoisie would find appalling, yet it was a desolate disrepair, speaking of the owner simply not caring about appearances, rather than benevolent neglect. No child's ball ever sailed into this yard by mistake...for if it had, surely it would have never been returned to its owner. No friendly groups of carolers dared come to this house, for fear of arrest, and no family came, short of Martin.

As de Courfeyrac himself walked up to his door, he reached for his key ring, struggling to find the right one. Now, Didier was a no-nonsense man, not given to fancy or delusion. This is a man that you may not like or trust, but can be depended on for solid facts. This man started suddenly. His door knocker was no longer the shape of a lion, its constant avatar. Instead, it was the ghostly face of his late partner, who, in the end, had indeed caught something deadly, and it showed. The face was gaunt, much paler than it'd been in life, and much thinner. The eyes seemed large and sunken, and the one name he spoke was with great difficulty. "Courbeyrac," he moaned, before disappearing into the abyss once more, allowing the doorknocker to resume its usual occupation.

**A/N Just in case you can't follow Joly's 'I-Have-A-Cold-But-It-Can-Turn-Into-So-Much-More' voice, I'll offer translations. This becomes much more important next chapter...**

**"Your uncle dew by grea' grandfadur?" Means 'Your uncle knew my great grandfather?'**

**"Courbeyrac" quite obviously means "Courfeyrac."**


	3. Theirry Joly, and a Chance

**Just a note, the rest of this probably will not be published until after the new year. In fact, the fact that chapter 3 is going up is a bit of a Christmas gift. Merry Christmas, and remember that it will do you good if you allow it to.**

Courfeyrac noted with a hint of satisfaction that Joly's eyes had widened as his telling continued. He was about to go on when the med student interrupted him.

"I dew it! I dew dad 'e died of Duberculosis!" Joly seemed excited at that point, and for good reason...it had been a point of contention for many years in his family. He sniffled a bit.

"May I continue?"

"By all means, please, Courfeyrac..." This from an intrigued poet by the name of Jehan Prouvaire. As a Romantic, he found symbolism in the anecdote already, and was scratching out a poem about it absentmindedly.

* * *

><p>The old man got himself together rather quickly, putting the vision off as a momentary distraction. Should one ever enter his house, one would notice that it was as dark as a crypt...this was the way old de Courfeyrac liked things. After all, light cost money, and why should one spend money when you can just as well get away with going without. All the same, he lit one and went through the house, checking to make sure that everything was in order.<p>

Didier was climbing the stairs to his bedroom when he heard a familiar sniffle, then a fit of coughing that, should the person with the cough be corporeal, would bring up blood. This may have been reflective of the fact that Theirry Joly had died of pneumonia. The clanking of chains followed that sound, and old de Courfeyrac found himself thinking about how ghosts in haunted houses were said to be chained. He shook off the thought quickly, though, not wanting to follow that train of thought to it's logical conclusion. "Ghosts do not exist, tu vieux fou!"

He went up to his room and fixed himself a thin gruel for his dinner. He settled near the fire, just as low as the one that Pontmercy had been told off for trying to feed earlier that day. The house was silent as the grave, and de Courfeyrac found himself nodding.

"de Coubfeyrach!" came the congested moan.

The old man started awake. "W-who's there? Show y-yourself!" At the same time, he inched towards the door. When he reached it, he quickly locked it, doing both deadbolts and the regular lock. The sound of chains being dragged up stairs drifted up to his ears, and Didier began to tremble. The clanking chains continued, getting louder and louder as Theirry came closer. De Courfeyrac thought at first that he was imagining it when Joly's pale form materialized through the door. "W-who are you?"

"Ask be who I vas!"

"Who were you, then? Very particular, for a ghost..." Didier surprised even himself, able to translate Joly's sick talk, even after all those years.

"In dlife, I vas your pardner, Dierry Joly."

"Can you sit?"

"yes."

"Do it, then!" Despite the seemingly ordinary conversation, de Courfeyrac found himself doubting the existence of this so called shade of his one true friend. He thought he'd eaten something off, perhaps the gruel had gone bad...

"You don'd believe in be?"

"No, no I don't."

"Vhy do you doubd your own senses?" He sniffled again. Looking at the ghost, one could find all the signs of his dying illness, and of the agony he'd gone through since. He looked skeptically at the mortal sitting across from him.

"Well, a little disorder puts them off so easily. There's more gravy than grave about you!"

Theirry grabbed his chains and shook them for a moment, before doubling over in another coughing fit. "Do you beliebe in be or nod!"

"I do, I _must_! But why? Why do spirits like you walk the earth...especially with you in such poor health, mon ami, you shouldn't be out and about..."

"It is required ob ebery ban dad he walk abroad during his dlife. If he does nod, he is doomed do do so in death- oh, bwoe is be! - and widness whad id cadot share, but bight have shared ond earth, and turned to happidess!"

"Wait...Theirry, you're fettered...why?"

"Dese are de chains I forged in dlife. Do dey look fabiliar? Dey should...yours were dis long and heavy nine Christbases ago. I shudder do dink how long dey are now..."

"Speak comfort to me, Theirry! S'il te plaît, Theirry..."

"I habe none to give. I cadot linger long...bud I have goden a chance for you, Didier, to escape by fate. Tonighd you will be visited by trois spirits."

"Is that the chance you spoke of?"

"Id is."

Didier sighed. "Maybe some other time, this really isn't that appealing, Theirry..."

"The first will combe when de clock strikes onde."

"Can't I take them all at once and get it over with?"

"The second will combe at de same timbe the next night, and the third will combe in his own good timbe. Look to see be no more, Didier. I pray daily for your reclaibation!" He suddenly flew for the window, joining a suddenly visible stream of phantoms roaming the streets. There were thousands, perhaps millions. All were chained, like Joly. Several were hovering around a young waif, cradling an even younger child.

Didier shut the shutters quickly, breathing hard. "Ghosts don't exist!" he muttered to himself, and went to bed.

**Translations of the sicktalk:**

"I knew it! I knew that he died of Tuberculosis!"

"de Coubfeyrach!"-"De Courfeyrac"

"Ask be who I vas!"-"Ask me who I was!"

"In dlife, I vas your pardner, Dierry Joly."-"In life, I was your partner, Theirry Joly."

"You don'd believe in be?"-"You don't believe in me?"

"Vhy do you doubd your own senses?"-"Why do you doubt your own senses?"

"Do you beliebe in be or nod!"-"Do you believe in me or not?"

"It is required ob ebery ban dad he walk abroad during his dlife. If he does nod, he is doomed do do so in death- oh, bwoe is be! - and widness whad id cadot share, but bight have shared ond earth, and turned to happidess!"-"It is required of every man that he walk abroad during his life. If he does not, he is doomed to do so in death-oh, woe is me!-and witness what it cannot share, but might have shared on earth, and turned into happiness!"

"Dese are de chains I forged in dlife. Do dey look fabiliar? Dey should...yours were dis long and heavy nine Christbases ago. I shudder do dink how long dey are now..."-"These are the chains I forged in life. Do they look familiar? They should...yours were this long and heavy nine Christmases ago. I shudder to think how long they are now..."

"I habe none to give. I cadot linger long...bud I have goden a chance for you, Didier, to escape by fate. Tonighd you will be visited by trois spirits."-"I have none to give. I cannot linger long...but I have gotten a chance for you, Didier, to escape my fate. Tonight you will be visited by trois spirits."

"Id is."-"It is."

"The first will combe when de clock strikes onde."-"The first will come when the clock strikes one."

"The second will combe at de same timbe the next night, and the third will combe in his own good timbe. Look to see be no more, Didier. I pray daily for your reclaibation!"-"The second will come at the same time the next night and the third will come in his own good time. Look to see me no more, Didier. I pray daily for your reclaimation!"


	4. Combeferre, Truth, and the Past

**Thanks to reviewers, especially to the new reviewer FaetheDevoutScholar. *sincerely hopes I've spelled that correctly...* This one took longer than expected, mostly because I couldn't justify skipping a look at Les Amis, but at the same time, I was having slight writer's block regarding that part. Just a note...yes, there are members of Les Amis beyond our beloved lieutenants. And no, I'm probably not going to bother naming them all.**

"Three spirits? Why not four, or two?" Combeferre ordinarily wouldn't shoot down a story like this, but coming from Courfeyrac...well, perhaps it would be easier to just let it be.

"It'll become clear when I finish-"

"Please do, ami." L'aigle had joined the small crowd surrounding Courfeyrac, made mostly of the various friends and acquaintances recruited by the dandy that weren't quite lieutenant material. All were leaning in, eager to hear more of the tale.

"If Combeferre assents?"

Combeferre inclined his head slightly, amused at the mock-deference.

* * *

><p>Didier awoke to the sound of the bells of Notre Dame ringing out the hour. One. He looked about, and seeing no ghost, muttered to himself. "What did I say...more gravy than grave about him..." He turned to his left, ready to go back to sleep, when he noticed a light coming from beneath his bed-curtains. It looked remarkably like...well, like the light of a single candle. He drew the curtain aside to reveal what he must admit to be the first spirit.<p>

The first things noticed about this spirit were the light emanating from the top of his head, and the cap he carried in his left hand. The light was almost blinding in its intensity. The cap looked rather like a large-scale version of the candle-snuffer on his bedside table. In the right hand of the ghost was the most basic of scientific instruments-a balance scale. His features were young, with brown hair pulled back for practicality and piercing eyes that seemed to find the truth of the matter wherever they turned.

"A-are you the spirit who's coming was foretold to me?" Didier managed to ask through a sudden bought of fear.

"I am." The spirit answered back simply, taking off his glasses to polish them. The instruments he held seemed to float where he released them for this simple action. The spirit's voice was gentle and soft, calming Didier's nerves.

"What are you?" He asked in slight wonder.

"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past." As he said it the words rang with simple truth.

"Long past?"

"Your past, Didier. Why else would I be coming to you?"

"Would you mind placing your cap on your head?"

"Would you so soon put out the light I bring? It's bad enough you are one of those who's worldly deeds have forged the cap, and many a time forced me to wear it low on my brow!" He seemed angry at the seemingly innocent request.

Didier realized his mistake, and quickly made to placate the spirit. "Je regrette...I didn't mean to offend. I-I can't help but wonder, though, good spirit, why you have come to me tonight..."

"For your welfare, Didier."

"Well, I can think of no greater item to those ends than a night of uninterrupted rest."

"Your reclamation, then. Don't bother trying to argue syntax with me, Didier. I will win." There was no hubris in that statement, merely an acknowledgement of fact. He laid a hand on Didier's arm, gently tugging him up. "Come, walk with me." He began on his way, which started through the window.

"Wait! Spirit, I am mortal...liable to fall. I cannot go about the way you may." Didier looked truly panicked at this, as he had never liked heights to begin with.

"One touch _here_," he laid his hand on Didier's heart,"and you shall travel as we spirits do. Do not be afraid-you'll not fall."

They went out, and Didier watched as the sky flew by. In a matter of seconds, they had landed somewhere he couldn't fail to recognize. It was snowy hill, overlooking the academy Didier had gone to as a child in the Alps. "I was raised here..."

A carriage passed by, containing several young boys. Didier called to them. "Daniel! François, old boy!"

"They can't here you, Didier, nor see you. These are shadows of what has been...Do you remember the way?"

"Remember it? I could walk it blindfold!" The old man seemed to have regained the energy and fervor of his youth, for he was nearly leaping with his joy at seeing his childhood companions.

"Strange...for so many years, you had forgotten it, Didier. Well, lead on."

They traveled to the top of the hill where they could see the academy itself. It was a dreary building, as many places of learning can be. A solitary brick building, as plain on the inside as it was on the outside. The door was far from inviting, and the entirety of it gave off an aura of abandonment at this moment. The spirit's next words seemed to disprove that very aura, though. "It isn't quite empty, you know. There's one boy left there..."

"I know." They entered the academy, and neither were surprised to find a young Didier de Courfeyrac huddled near a dying fire, attempting to read.

"Poor lad, all alone, except for those companions that aren't real..."

"Not real? Ali Baba, not real? Quasimodo, not real?" It was clear in both the old man and the child that these characters were very real to Didier. They were his only companions as a child, most especially when his family would not take him home even for the Christmas holiday.

Sympathy showed in the spirit's eyes for a brief moment, as he muttered "Let's see another Christmas..." The scene didn't change at all, except that the boy de Courfeyrac grew a few inches in as many seconds. The lad looked up from his book as a sound came from the distance...the sound of a carriage. He dismissed it quickly, figuring it was for one of the other boys.

"Didier? Didier!" It was the voice of a young girl... Annabelle de Courfeyrac. She was a few years younger than Didier, and a great deal shorter.

The lad turned around at the sound of his sister. "Annabelle! What are you doing here?"

"I've come to bring you home, brother. Home! Father is so much nicer now...he spoke to me so sweetly the other night that I wasn't afraid to ask him once more if you might come home for the Noel, and he said yes, you should! He sent me in a carriage, and you're to be home for good!"

"For good, Annabelle?"

"Yes!"

Their excitement at the prospect was enough to warm even the hardest of hearts...it was a bittersweet moment for old Dider, however, as it brought back the memory of Annabelle's death. "She died too young," came the harsh whisper.

"She died a women...with children, as I recall?" The spirit asked.

"One child."

"Your nephew, Martin."

"I'd never noticed just how much he looks like her..." He began to regret how he treated his nephew, wishing distantly that he had accepted the dinner invitation. "Take me home, now. I've seen enough."

"I'm afraid that's not for you to say..."

**A/N I apologize if the characters from books I chose are out of period. There's no real excuse for it, and I may end up changing them at a moment's notice...but for now, it's what I have to work with.**


	5. Marie Le Page, and a Party

**Happy Christmas-in-July! So, without further ado, the continuation of "A ChristMiz Carol." For the record, I couldn't think of anyone who really fit the role of Fezziwig from Les Miserables, so I threw in one of my OC's. Mam'zelle Combeferre, WontYouLightMyCandle, you will recognize him. And his sister (Yes, Mam'zelle, I changed her name. Chloe seems…anachronistic.)**

"Past, Present, Future? It's hardly an original concept, Courfeyrac." A raised eyebrow paired the statement.

"Are you going to shoot down every little detail, or can I tell the story uninterrupted?"

"It depends on how ridiculous the details."

"Fair enough," Courfeyrac sighed a bit. He'd never finish his story at this rate—he wasn't even finished with the first ghost. Now, a good storyteller would continue on right then and there, but he was a man, flawed as any man is liable to be. "Friends…now, you wouldn't expect me to continue on with a parched throat, would you?"

An indulgent smirk from the waitress, Louison, and his glass was full. "You, at least, I know will pay for it!"

* * *

><p>The school seemed to dissolve in a flurry of snowflakes as the ghost touched him once more, this time taking his hand. The countryside was replaced with the familiar cityscape. They'd returned to Paris—but not the Paris of the present. "Why—it's old Le Page's workshop!" de Courfeyrac exclaimed. It was indeed—a small, locally owned fan shop. "I had my apprenticeship there, along with an artist—a good friend of mine, what was his name? Feuilly, it had to be it!" a grin was plastered on the older man's face as he immersed himself in the memory.<p>

The spirit simply gestured at the door. They entered to find they owner of the fan shop rising from his seat. "Enough work for one night, my lads. De Courfeyrac, do stop scribbling. Feuilly, put those paints away before you give yourself a headache trying to work in this light. Close up the shop, mes garçons, its Christmas Eve." The man seemed young for his position…and he was. It was only with the help of a wealthier friend that he'd managed to open the place at all, instead of remaining a clerk for all time. However, he was only slightly handsome, and his good humor made up for what his visage lacked.

"Are you throwing another of your famous parties, M. Le Page?" the younger version of Didier asked, his excited grin nearly matching that of the elder de Courfeyrac at the sight of such merriment.

"Naturally, Didier. Now come, clean up. We can't have the place in such a messy state when the guests begin to arrive." He threw himself into the work as well, tiding up the truly disastrous shop.

Soon enough, guests had begun to arrive…starting with M. Le Page's younger sister. Marie Le Page was a fetching girl of 13 with dreams of becoming a doctor, although they could take a back seat for the right young man. It seemed that 'right young man' was to be Didier de Courfeyrac, for she was staring at him with unabashed curiosity. It wasn't long, however until the party was truly in full swing. As soon as she could have possibly found an excuse for her brother, she left his side, turning to Didier. "Would it be impertinent of me to ask a dance of you, my friend?" Friend…the word sent shivers down the spine of both older and younger de Courfeyrac. The older in grief for a friendship long lost; the younger in hope that one day she might call him more than 'friend.' Nevertheless, both men shook it off, and de Courfeyrac watched as his younger self danced with the love of his life.

The ghost, looking down his glasses in mock disdain for the frivolity, made himself known to de Courfeyrac once more. "Such a small thing, to make such silly people happy in such a manner."

"Small, Spirit?"

"After all, it only cost him a couple of francs. Three, at most, I'd say?" The ghost's scale moved suddenly, the results of the party at the end that went plummeting downwards, a few coins on the higher end. For that was how men such as de Courfeyrac would weigh the world, by the coins it cost…

"Oh, but it's so much more than that. He had the power to make our labor light or burdensome, our days long or short. He had the power to make us miserable, but used it to make us happy…" he trailed off, realizing he was speaking as idealistically as his nephew…or, closer to the mark, his younger self. It was because of that self-distraction that he didn't note the scale changing its position again…it had reached perfect balance between the power to make one miserable and the choice to make one happy.

There was the ghost of a smile in the spirit's eyes as he noted this himself. "My time grows short. Quickly, now," he didn't seem to be addressing de Courfeyrac, or indeed anyone, yet the scene, as the one before it, dissolved in another flurry of flakes.


	6. Another idol has displaced me

**So…yes, it's a miracle that I'm updating twice in one week, but I'm bored, which almost forces inspiration. And some drawing that's rather incredible given that I. Cannot. Draw. At. All. **

"So…your conquests are hereditary, eh?" Bahorel nudged him in the ribs jokingly. Everyone knew that Courfeyrac loved the ladies.

"Maybe, maybe not…he really did love her. For a time, their romance was a beautiful as they come." A small, wistful smile. Courfeyrac didn't fool himself—he knew that most of his relationships with women were based on little more than lust and friendship. Sometimes a fellow longed for a little more, so he envied his great-uncle the true romance that came of love.

* * *

><p>The scene solidified again, quite clearly the Jardin du Luxembourg. De Courfeyrac started forward as he saw Marie, a few years older and close to tears. She was dressed in mourning colors, her face covered by a veil of black lace. "Another idol has displaced me, Didier." Her tone was accusing, her back turned to the young man she was addressing.<p>

"What idol, Marie?"

"A golden one," she turned to him, anger shining in her eyes, although she didn't pursue the answer further.

"This is the even-handed dealing of the world. There is nothing on which it is so hard as poverty; and there is nothing it professes to condemn with such severity as the pursuit of wealth," professed the young man. He couldn't have known how much he'd come to regret those words in later years, how they would hound him until even sleep held no solace.

"You fear the world too much, Didier. All your other hopes—of love, of a family—have given way to the hope that you can be beyond its grasp. I've seen all your nobler aspirations fall off, one by one, until only the master-hope of Gain remains."

He chuckled a bit, nervously, although even to his ears it seemed callous. "What of it? So, I've grown wiser over the years, even your brother cannot deny that. But I've not changed towards you."

She shook her head, so incredibly saddened by what she saw in his eyes. "Our contract is an old one, made when we were poor and content to be so. You are not the man who professed his love to me all those years ago."

"I was a _boy._" His vehemence seemed to be the final nail in the coffin.

"So you do know that you are not now what you once were—ah, well, I'd thought as much. What promised happiness when we were one heart can only bring misery with us being two separate hearts. I release you, Didier de Courfeyrac, from any financial or romantic commitment to me. Ettiene will be disappointed." A single tear fell as she turned to leave.

"Have I ever sought release?" He asked desperately. He looked, for all the world, as if caught off-guard by this new development.

"Not in words, Didier. Never in words," She couldn't bear to even look at him…

"How then?"

"In a changed heart. Tell me, Didier—if we had never been together, would you seek me out now? A poor girl living with her brother is not such a great prospect after all." She paused a moment, and when he did not answer, she continued. "Ah, no…"

"You think I would not?"

"If I could, I would gladly believe otherwise. But there is no profit in it for one who weighs everything by gain. Even if you abandoned your principle long enough to marry me, you'd regret it all your days. I release you, Didier, for the love of the man you once were. May you be happy in the path you've chosen." She held her head high as she left, ignoring the tears tracing their way down her cheeks.

Forgetting once more that the past cannot hear them, old de Courfeyrac bore down on his younger counterpart. "Go after her, you fool! If you do not, then you will lose her forever!" But alas, young Didier could not hear his older self, and so turned to walk away. "Spirit, conduct me home." He wished to forget about this time, this place—if he could. The words had haunted him many a sleepless night and the weight of what might have been was a constant on his shoulders.

"I have one thing left to show you." For a final time, the scene dissolved. This time, de Courfeyrac could have sworn the chosen scene was to spite him. Marie was older yet, the young matriarch of a growing family in the outskirts of Paris. Her three children were gathered near, the youngest tugging on her skirts to be picked up. They'd been waiting, and their wait would soon be over. A young, handsome man came riding on horseback. He dismounted, greeted the children with affection, and then turned to Marie.

"Hello, husband," she gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek. "How was your day?"

"It was fine. You would never believe who I saw on the street today, though. Go on, take a guess!" He laughed, eyes twinkling.

"Well, I don't know. Um…Didier de Courfeyrac!" She had never once thought of the man since meeting her husband, until this moment.

"Yes, actually. He's become the meanest, stingiest man I've ever met—I'm not sure what you ever saw in him."

"He was once a good man, Dear Heart. " She seemed lost in thought…

"Spirit, remove me from this place." Old de Courfeyrac demanded. Why tease him with what could have been?

"These are merely shadows of the past…they are what they are, no power of mine can change them."

All at once, Didier saw on the face of the ghost the faces that had tormented his dreams for years. Enraged, he launched himself at the spirit, fighting viciously. Even in his rage-driven fervor, he noticed that the light of the ghost had grown brighter. He made a sudden grab for the extinguisher-cap, vaguely surprised when the ghost did not—perhaps _could_ not—prevent this. He forced the metal cone over the spirits head and pressed it down with all his earthly might. Soon, the spirit had vanished under the cap, though the light remained. De Courfeyrac found himself getting tired…and more importantly, he was in his own room, his own bed. Perhaps a few hours rest would be wise?


	7. A torch, wrought like a cornucopia

**Happy Thanksgiving, everyone! Here's to the first update of the Christmas season! Many thanks both to loyal reviewers and to the George C. Scott version of A Christmas Carol. Scott has always been my first Scrooge, and a lot of the imagery in the Ghost of Christmas Present chapters will be pulled from this version (Except the game played at 'Fred's' house-I've always enjoyed Blind Man's Bluff as seen in the Patrick Stewart version as opposed to 'Similes.' Besides. Topper needs more screen time.) All the Pontmercy children, with the exception of Gavroche, are mine. Kinda.**

"You mean to say the first ghost could have been aught but a dream, Courfeyrac?" Jehan's brow was furrowed...although the power of dreams was quite something to behold, it would be disappointing after the promise of spirits.

"Now, I never said that...but it's an old family tale. No one quite knows the truth of the matter anymore. It could be this was all an old man's imaginings, but I prefer to believe that it was true. After all...he was awake to greet Joly's ghost, was he not?" Courfeyrac flashed an easy smile at the expected question. Sure, there was ambiguity in the story-and with this crowd of friends, he had no expectations of letting any of the details go without being analyzed-but it was the story itself which held value for him, not whether it was true or not.

"Now he tells me!" Bahorel scowled theatrically, clearly teasing his friend. "Get on with the story! Perhaps you'll have proof of the ghosts later?"

"Just wait and see, Bahorel. Wait and see."

* * *

><p>It seemed mere minutes before the bells of Notre Dame were tolling the hour once more. One. <em>Have I really slept an entire day away?<em> Didier glanced around the room, apprehensive but prepared for the appearance of another ghost. Upon finding no evidence what-so-ever about this second spirit's presence, he found himself trembling slightly in immense relief. "Maybe now I may get some decent sleep..." This was not to be, however, because before he'd even turned to return to sleep, he spied a light coming from under the door. A thief, perhaps?

"Didier de Courfeyrac!" a commanding voice from behind the door called, and Didier started. The second spirit had come. He sat, still as a startled deer, until the voice came again. "Come in, man, and know me better!"

He obeyed the voice quickly, very nearly gaping openly at what he saw upon entering the room. It was his counting room, surely, and the structure had not been changed over-much. But the interior! In one corner stood an enormous Christmas tree, it's boughs weighed down by a multitude of intricately painted delicate glass ornaments. On it's summit stood an angel 'tree-topper,' it's delicate face and hands wrought from the finest porcelain. The walls of the room were crawling with holly and ivy, each leaf reflecting a bit of light as if a mirror were there, not a bit of greenery. Heaped up on the floor, to form a kind of throne, were turkeys, geese, game, poultry, brawn, great joints of meat, sucking-pigs, long wreaths of sausages, mince-pies, plum-puddings, barrels of oysters, red-hot chestnuts, cherry-cheeked apples, juicy oranges, luscious pears, immense twelfth-cakes, and seething bowls of punch, that made the chamber dim with their delicious steam. And upon this throne of food sat a bald man, jolly in his countenance and crowned with a holly wreath. He bore nothing more than a simple torch, wrought in the shape of a cornucopia. The man seemed ageless, despite the lack of hair, and he moved with the energy of youth.

"I am the Ghost of Christmas Present. Look upon me, de Courfeyrac." the spirit's eyes twinkled joyously, as though amused at de Courfeyrac's obvious discomfort at the sight of the ghost. "You've never seen the likes of me before, have you? Never walked out with one of my elder brothers?"

"No, I can't say I have. Have you...many brothers?"

The ghost laughed outright at this. "Many? Over seventeen hundred!"

"A tremendous family to provide for..." Didier offered nervously. Then, he seemed to get a hold of himself. "Spirit, conduct me where you will, and I will learn what lesson you have to offer me."

"Touch my robe, then..." The room dissolved, then, as the torch shone brighter. In its flames, one could barely make out the shadow of an open market place. The image grew brighter and nearer, until Didier realized that the picture was indeed their surroundings. He observed the place as people bustled about, gathering their last minute purchases. They came to a bakery, as the workers were setting out their own modest Christmas meal. The Spirit looked upon them momentarily, then sprinkled incense from his torch upon the meal.

"Does it give some peculiar flavor, your torch?"

"It gives my own flavor."

"Ah." They continued on, stopping occasionally to sprinkle more incense. Sooner than he would have expected, the two stopped in front of a ramshackle building close to the Seine. "I do not know this place. Where are we, Spirit?"

"Your clerk, Marius Pontmercy, lives here."

"He does very well on what I give him." de Courfeyrac seemed almost self-satisfied with this, but then looked upon the spirit curiously.

"Let us enter..."

"I..." a nervous laugh, here. He knew he'd be unwelcome. "I wouldn't want to disturb them."

"As with Christmas Past, we shall remain invisible and unheard. There will be no disruption." With that, they entered into the scene.

The first thing they saw was a woman, Cosette, going about with her cooking. "Lisette, would you go check on the pudding for me?" She called out to one of the several children lazing about the small room.

"Yes, Maman."

"Maman, when will Papa be home?" Olivier asked, knowing his father was late again.

"He should be here any minute now. He probably stopped to talk to the minister...you know how he likes to compliment him on the sermons." Gabrielle answered for her mother, a slight lisp apparent as she'd just lost her first front tooth.

Almost on cue, Marius walked in the home, Gavroche perched on his shoulder. "Salut, mes infants, Cosette..."

"Father!" Before anyone could react, the three children had swarmed their father, hugging whatever they could reach. "Merry Christmas, Father!"

"Alright, alright. Let me put Gav down." He was smiling though, more than happy to be with his family on Christmas day. Soon enough, the younger two were bearing Gavroche off, carefully supporting him, to listen to the pudding sing in its copper pot.

"Did he behave in church?" Cosette asked, more concerned for her youngest's well being than his behavior, truly.

"As good as gold...better. He gets thoughtful, though...he said the strangest thing to me leaving church this morning. He said he hoped that people saw him in church, because he was a cripple and it might be pleasant for them to remember on Christmas who made blind men see and lame beggars walk..." He smiled sadly.

De Courfeyrac found even his cold heart twisting sadly for the child. "Spirit...will Gavroche live?"

"I see an empty place at the table and a crutch, carefully preserved. If the shadows of what will be remain unchanged by the future, he will die."

"Non! Say he will be spared."

"If the shadows remain unchanged, none of my kind will find him again..." Here, the spirit's face hardened, and though his mouth smiled, his eyes shone with anger. "But what of it? If he is to die, let him do so and decrease the surplus population!"

"You use my own words against me..." Didier sounded hurt, realizing for the first time exactly what his speech of earlier had meant.

"Then perhaps you should chose your words with more care until you learn what the surplus population really is and where it lies. It could be in the sight of heaven you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man's child!" The spirit sighed, almost visibly exhausted by the argument...

By this point, dinner was out, and Didier was struck by the contrast between the children's reactions to the goose and its actual size. "Rather small goose, isn't it?"

"It's all Pontmercy can _afford._"

The dinner went as most will, with a touching grace ended with 'God bless us, everyone,' from Gavroche. Soon everyone was digging in to eat. The warm scene continued, as they are like to do. At dinner's end, Marius stood, raising his glass. "To M. de Courfeyrac, the founder of our feast."

Didier looked proud for a moment, but deflated at a scowl from Cosette. "The founder of our feast indeed. If he were here tonight, I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I should hope he had a good appetite for it." This was indeed shocking from the typically mild-mannered woman.

"Cosette, the children. It's Christmas..."

"It ought to be, that we should drink to the health of such and odious, stingy..." She subsided at a sharp look from Marius. "Very well. I'll drink his health. For your sake, and for the day's sake. But not for his. To Monsieur de Courfeyrac, a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. I have no doubt that his Christmas will be very merry and he'll be very happy..."


	8. Genevieve and a Silent Night

**I'm sorry for the long delay; my only defense is that, through no fault of my family's or my own, it just doesn't feel like Christmas right now. However, thanks for this update comes from Ravariel (if she's reading.) since her version of a 3-year old Combeferre inspired me to show just a bit of my headcanon regarding Courfeyrac.**

**I don't own the song Silent Night in any language-but I'm pretty sure it's public domain by now, so I don't think it particularly matters.**

In the Musain, there was a small child napping. She awoke then, toddling over to her older brother and pulling on his pant-leg. "Mati, you tellin' 'bout Oncle Didiew?" Like most children her age, she had issues pronouncing some letters and sounds, such as the letter 'r.'

"Oui, Gen, I am telling about notre oncle." Courfeyrac grinned a bit, then lifted the girl up to his lap for a better vantage of the room.

One of the newer recruits called out then. "The newest femme a bit young, isn't she?"

"Maybe...but a more tempestuous woman I've yet to meet, Renaud. One day, she's going to be a handful for some poor homme, but until then, I'm happy to serve her every whim." A whole-hearted smile, full of both pride and exasperation with the girl. While Genevieve could be quite bright when she wanted to be-she was also very much a temperamental two-year old. He'd been watching Gen on and off for years, although he couldn't quite justify his parent's decision to leave Gen to him. Perhaps they were simply tired (with Courfeyrac being the only boy in a brood of nine, he wouldn't be surprised)..."Who wants me to continue?"

A raucous chorus of 'd'accord's and 'oui's, and a regal nod from Gen signaled that he should, indeed, continue his story. He took just a split second longer before starting, reveling in having a fresh, receptive audience.

* * *

><p>"Come, it's time we left." Didier didn't quite start, but he was surprised into looking a bit more closely at the Spirit's face. There were laugh-lines there, which, though natural on the face, weren't there before-were they?<p>

Once again, the light of the torch flared up. This time in the flames, a myriad of images could be seen, above them the same carol sung. Whether it be in his own native french in a coal mine- _Douce nuit! Sainte nuit! Tout se tait, l'heure fuit.-_or in German, as a small boat tossed and pitched on a winter tempest-_Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar. Holder Knab' im lockigen Haar,-_or in English, at what seemed to be a workhouse for women only-_Sleep in Heavenly peace! Sleep in Heavenly peace._ No matter what each singer brought to the table-the sweet lilting soprano of a mother, the rough yet heartfelt tenors of the sailors, or even the deep bass of the miner-the whole seemed to encompass and overcome all their suffering, uniting their love.

Before any of the scenes could really settle into true existence, each faded into another, until at last there was only a street, reasonably wealthy, and with sounds of merriment coming from one particular house. "Why, that's where my nephew, Martin, lives." The spirit merely smiled, as he was wont to at such scenes-the people celebrating were sharing company with their truest, best selves. Didier looked up suddenly as the tinkling of a piano came across to his senses. At first it seemed a random collection of notes, but then he realized that it was indeed the song he'd heard from the sufferers.

"J'en ai marre, he said. Of Christmas! Ha!"

"Well, he must be very rich. I know of no other types who can be so morose." A brawny man with tawny hair and a mustache supplied drolly.

"Yes, but what use does it do him?"

"I don't know why you put up with him, Martin, darling." It was his nephew's wife speaking now, a pretty little thing-why did Didier forget her name?-and sharp as a whip.

"Well, I believe his sentiments carry their own punishment...I, for one, shall keep extending the invitation. Who knows? Perhaps one year he may surprise us by accepting."

"He'd be missing a very excellent meal and even better company by refusing." A dry smirk.

"Oh Bahorel, you merely want free food!" She smiled back, half glaring at the offending loafer while pressing a kiss to Martin's cheek. "Well, shall we have a game?"

The Spirit was gladdened indeed when he felt Didier's spirits grow lighter with the glad mood of the party-perhaps more events such as this may have turned his path differently-but that wasn't his bailiwick, so he would leave the past be. He turned to move, bringing Didier with him, but was surprised by a tugging resistance. "Spirit-games. Can't we stay to watch just one?" He couldn't refuse the pleading look on the old man's face, and so nodded.

"Let's play Simile's!"

"No, Trivia!"

"Blind Man's Bluff. Let's play Blind Man's Bluff..." That seemed to be the answer, because before another suggestion could be shot out, a handkerchief was covering Bahorel's eyes-but not quite the right way. It was positioned just so the thinnest part was over his eyes. "He's cheating." Didier muttered, unheeded. Bahorel staggered about, almost drunkenly, to make it seem as if he truly was blinded. Then, he managed to catch the girl he was flirting with all night-just under the mistletoe.

"Oh, M. Bahorel!" She cried, blushing as she looked up. "You know you have to kiss me now." The kiss was truly spectacular. As they broke the kiss, one could hear the girl say snidely. "By the by, I know you cheated."

"Come now, we have to leave."

"Spirit..."

"My time grows short! We cannot linger."


	9. A Spirit's View

**Hello again! Well, after having completely lost my voice (between singing in two Christmas concert and screaming my head off at a Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert), I have nothing better to do than to write.**

**Also, take a listen to the song Grown-Up Christmas List, with the context of what happened in Connecticut lately. It will make you cry-or at least it did me.**

Gen cuddled into her brother. She never quite liked the darker turn the story took from there, and always hoped that one way or another, Mati would tell it differently.

"Do you really think this happened, Courfeyrac?" Jehan asked quite seriously-it was not the dandy's honesty he doubted, but rather the truthfulness of the story itself. It did feel rather like fiction, after all.

"So I've been told. Have I had my doubts about it? Of course...but every year when I tell it or my father tells it to me, it rings of truth by the very end." He smiled though, having expected the question for quite a while. "I suppose we'll never know if it really happened or not-my uncle, sadly, died a few years after this story's end. But even if it didn't-well, the hope is still there. And isn't that what we all want out of the season: a little extra hope for the future?"

* * *

><p>They didn't go far-in fact, they didn't even bother traveling by supernatural means. The spirit lead Didier down the way, into a small alley, where one could see a painter, huddling with his small family by the fire. His hands, thin but calloused, were trembling slightly in the bitter cold.<p>

"Maybe we could go to the parish workhouse, darling. At least then, we would have some food." the last was slightly bitter, as the man heaved a sigh. He'd clearly been contemplating that very option for quite a while now. "The kids wouldn't starve, at least. It'd be the honest thing t'do..."

"And let them separate us from the children? No, I will not allow that Christophe Feuilly!" The little woman's vehemence was such that even a man like Didier could feel for her. "We'll find something. Somehow, we will. I can promise you that!"

Didier turned away from the scene, startled to find that the Spirit seemed to have aged considerably. That great broad face, unlined at the beginning of the night, was wrinkled and creased as a crumpled paper. "Are spirit's lives so short upon the earth, that you've aged so?"

"Mine is...it ends this very night, at midnight." No comfort was offered, nor guidance. What was left to see was up to Didier-if he did not see...but no, there was dawning comprehension on the mortal's face.

"Spirit, there is something protruding from under your robe...is it a hand or a claw?" Didier was nearly horrified to see the shriveled flesh coming from one who'd been so healthy, so vital...

"It could be a claw, for all the flesh that is on it. Look, de Courfeyrac!" Upon the word, the spirit opened his robe, revealing two filthy bundles of rags and skin. The Spirit saw that de Courfeyrac had instinctively looked away from the sight, such as it was. "Look!" The figures were two children, no more then six or seven, but each so wizened and bent with hardship that they might have been mistaken for ancient beings instead of people just starting their lives. The girl, for it was a girl, on the right, looked upon Didier with a helpless kind of anger in her eyes, the anger of one who doesn't understand why she's been punished all her life. Her hands, clutching convulsively on the Spirit's robe for comfort, were gnarled and wrinkled from the constant work and mistreatment she suffered. The boy on the left, however, was slightly more erect and confident. However, he was so emaciated that even through the bundles of rags that might have once been clothing, one could see ribs protruding. Fingers, nimble enough to steal and pickpocket, plucked anxiously at the fur trim of the Spirit's robe.

"Are they yours, Spirit?"

"They are yours. They are _man's. _They apply to me for pity, pleading without words for the solace that never comes. The boy is Ignorance, the girl, Want. Beware them both and all of their degree, but especially the boy. For I see, written upon his brow, that which is Doom!" _  
><em>

"Have they no shelter? Have they no resources?"

"Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses?" The Spirit positively sneered this, wheezing now with each breath as his end neared. He lowered the folds of his robe. "Be calm, mortal, they are covered. But they still live, quietly." Suddenly, the clock struck midnight. The torch flared one last time, and when it's light dimmed then died, the Spirit was gone...

...leaving Didier alone, in an unfamiliar place, awaiting the whim of the final spirit.

* * *

><p>It has been said that there is a realm parallel to our own where ghosts and spirits may gather and converse at no cost to their energies. In these places, it is always that one moment where the present melts into the future, and the past is ever present-time has no meaning in this place, and as such, all elements of it can exist here. It is in such a place that we the observers find ourselves now. Three spirits were gathered in such a place, in forms much less melodramatic than the ones they'd taken or were to take before old de Courfeyrac.<p>

"He's stubborn-always has been. Are you sure this will work?" It was Past, idly polishing his glasses, as he looked fondly upon the exhausted form of Present. "I don't want to see you drained too..."

Future merely looked at Past with a light smile. "I know you're protective of us, my friend. I promise you, this will work...I may have to be a bit more intimidating than my usual, but then, when does the rising tide of an unpleasant future ever cease to draw both fascination and fear?" The newest spirit paused for a moment, shaking the strikingly blonde hair from his blue eyes. "I'll not drain myself either...I do have some modicum of restraint...unlike our mutual friend."

"I'll admit..." came the weak voice of Present as he struggled into a seated position "It was stupid to try something quite so all-encompassing when I was already running low. I'd lost track of the time...I'm not so stupid as to try a Representation in my eleventh hour stage."

"Don't try to get up, mon ami...God, you must be exhausted..."

"Just a little bit...I'll be fine soon enough."

"Ironic, considering that in the eyes of the mortal world, you just died."

The gentle bickering between Past and Present continued, as Future silently went about costuming himself for The Visitation. He donned a robe, black as night, and pulled up the hood, concealing his hair and face. He closed his eyes for a moment in concentration, and when he opened them, they'd changed from the deepest blue to a glowing crimson, the whites and the pupil both having completely disappeared. On his hands, he wore gloves that seemed to change the very nature of the hands, turning them into skeletal things, longer than is quite normal.

Past started upon realizing the change in his friend. "Must you scare him so? The poor man's probably already close to having a heart attack-and we want to change him, not kill him."

"You know as well as I that this is one of the only forms that will reach him to the core. You had your candlelight, I have my cloak and gloves." With that said, he placed his hand in the air as if against a door. "Both of you get some rest...with any luck, we'll have a convert when I come back." He pushed against the empty air, and then vanished.


	10. The Unfeeling Future

**Hey! So I haven't completely abandoned this baby—I just got caught up in a different fandom, and thus lost most Les Miz muse for a while. But, with Christmas coming and insomnia meaning I've got nothing better to do, I finally completed the next installment!**

"Wait. If that took place in the spirit world, how could you possibly know it?" Combeferre demanded, skepticism once again prompting him to speak up. While he wanted to believe this story was possible—it was just fantastic enough to be true, after all—he couldn't stop himself from pointing out the flaws in the storytelling.

"Truthfully? I don't. For all I know, that moment was just an embellishment to make the darker parts of the tale more palatable for young ears. I just know that it was how my papa used to tell it. And I would never deviate from that—the ending is much too powerful for me to go messing around with the middle."

There were a few nods of understanding. Most everyone did have that one story that they wished to tell the same way they'd been told as children. Courfeyrac sighed, and held his sister a bit more tightly.

He was alone.

The fact struck him suddenly and with a force that he hardly understood. He'd been content to be alone for so many years. Why did he fear it now? Perhaps…perhaps it was just because this was a strange place and he knew not how to get home. Yes, he would go with that explanation. It was better than nothing, after all.

Thunder crashed, and Didier whirled around where he stood to see an impossibly tall figure, cloaked in darkness but for glowing crimson eyes and skeletal hands emerging from the sleeves of its cloak. Didier trembled, terrified of the figure for reasons unknown to his conscious mind. Underneath the current of his thoughts, he _knew_ the figure represented death. His own death, even. But he would never let himself admit that, not when he could still hope for a positive outcome. Still, when he spoke, his voice broke slightly. "I t-take it you are the Spirit of C-christmas Yet t-to Come?"

The figure was silent and still, but his manner seemed to confirm Didier's guess.

"And you are to show me shadows of things that have not yet come to pass, but might in the coming years?"

More silence.

"Very well—lead me where you will, and quickly. The night grows old, and the time is precious to me…" While he no longer stuttered out the words, his voice was still weak and cautious. He feared this specter, more than the others that had come. It pointed away from the alley in which they were standing, and Didier followed, not daring to disobey. The alley seemed to melt away into the fog, being quickly replaced by the imposing structure of the brokerage he often came to near the end of the long work days. There he saw two—no, three—men, standing and talking. He recognized two of them—Valjean and Mabeuf. The third was a stranger to him. "Spirit, what business have we here?"

The silence that came seemed a judgmental one, and he fell silent to listen to the conversation.

"No, no I don't know how he passed—I only know that he has." Valjean seemed rather too happy about the fact, a trait shared by the other two.

"When did he die?"

"Last night, I believe. And all alone, too. As he lived…" Valjean again answered.

The third man broke in. "What's he done with his money?"

"All I know is he hasn't left it to me. Perhaps he willed it to the company?" Mabeuf sighed, seemingly disappointed. Honestly, he hoped it would have gone to charity, some good cause. But he knew better than to believe that of Didier de Courfeyrac.

"It's likely to be a very poor funeral…" The third man contributed.

"I'll go, if there's lunch involved…"

Didier turned away from the scene. "Why is this relevant to me, Spirit? Why are these men so callous, so cruel?"

The spirit merely turned, pointing away from the scene. The ever-present fog swallowed the brokerage, this time opening to what could only be described as a den of thieves. Didier entered the ramshackle hut with a look of disgust, wondering clearly what any of this had to do with him.

The owner of the hut, Thenardier, was a man of simple, dishonest means. He would rather rob a poor man than earn an honest dollar, simply because it was easier—but often that wasn't necessary. Not when he could get others to do the stealing for him and simply gather the profit.

And so, three people walked into his hovel, proving that one didn't need to go far to make a profit. Two women, one man, all looking suspiciously about, as if to check if they'd been followed. "Well, well, well, if I didn't know better, I'd say there's some sort a conspiracy 'round here, you lot all descendin' on me at once like this."

"Ain't no conspiracy, Thenardier, an' you know it." The larger woman, Madame Jondrette, snapped at the man. Still, she bustled about and filled the space through sheer force of personality, forcing the other two to let her approach with her bundle first. "I have a right to do right by myself. He always did, anyway. If he wanted to keep his things after he died, he should have been more natural-like in life. Then he'd have someone to take care of him, instead of dying all alone…"

"That you do, Jondrette, no one's telling you otherwise, least of all us. Now, what've you got?" He opened her bundle, unsurprised to find some old towels, sheets, some clothing, and even a few pieces of silverware. "Now…good quality wares, yes, but…considering what I can sell them for, I'll give you three francs for the lot—an' if you try to haggle, I'll knock of five sous without a second thought."

"Thenardier!"

"I'm always too good to the ladies, Jondrette, it's my weakness. You know that."

The man shouldered his way to the front then. "Alright, mine next." His name was Montparnasse, and he'd been working with the undertaker when he found his opportunity to strike. His bundle was smaller, containing only a pencil case and a couple pairs of cuff-links. "It ain't much, but it's rich."

"…Ah, too easily faked. I'll give you a franc. You're getting too cocky, Montparnasse—you need to keep up if you want to keep your reputation…"

"Fine."

Finally, the last woman made her way to the front, her bundle the largest of them all. "You'll pay more for this one, Thenardier, I know it."

"What…exactly…is it, Azelma?"

"Bed curtains."

Thenardier seemed astounded. "You don't mean to tell me you took 'em down, with him lyin' there? I hope he didn't die of anything catching."

"I didn't like him enough as that I'd be loitering about if he did."

Didier turned to the Spirit once more, countenance troubled. "Spirit, this is a fearful place. I don't understand why you have brought me here, unless the man whose items have been stolen was like me. The items are similar to mine…enough. Show me some emotion connected to this man's death!"


End file.
